Dead Sons
by Grumpig
Summary: He was fifteen years old when he became Kylo Ren.


He was fifteen years old when he became Kylo Ren.

He still remembered his parents' faces when they had sent him to train with Luke, his new master. Bright, beaming, nervous and unsure. They had told him time and again how proud they were of him. He was ten years old. He had idolised his uncle, the legendary Luke Skywalker. It seared in his memory like an unyielding fire, burning him for years on end.

Supreme Leader Snoke was always there, always prying. His parents, Luke, everyone only realised it when it was too late. Snoke had control of the young boy's mind. He had moulded him into what the universe had feared the most. He destroyed everything they had worked for when he was no more than a teenager. The new generation of Jedi were all gone, because of him. Now destruction was all he had left.

Disorder bubbled in his blood, it was in his bones. He felt chaos was the only time he could feel nothing, just searing white heat in his skull. The light tugged at him constantly, threatening to pull him back. It was always there, somewhere in the recesses of the Force. The intensity rose and fell, but it was always there. Sometimes he thought he could hear Luke's voice, sometimes Leia's, sometimes ones he didn't recognise. That was when he would throw himself into fits of rages, thought of as seemingly unprompted by anyone who was unfortunate enough to bear witness. These incidents were often reported to General Hux on the grounds of Ren destroying expensive aspects of his prized ship.

How he hated when Hux showed up after one of his tantrums. How he hated Hux.

He was his stark opposite. Always poised, always unflinching. His loyalty to the First Order was firm and uncompromising. He heeded the Supreme Leader's orders despite having any remote interest in neither the Force nor the Dark Side.

Rage was in him, too. Ren could see it, could feel it. It was behind his eyes, it was in the way he spoke, the way he delivered speeches, but it was always under control. His anger was professional. It was practical.

Hux stood at the door, eyes slowly going over the damages. Ren didn't have to read him to see the repair expenses being calculated in his head. He regarded Ren with a condescending look, and he felt like he was condemning his entire existance in that moment.

"I see I'm being torn from important work to observe yet another one of your infamous tantrums," he said calmly, hands clasped behind his back. Business as usual.

Ren continued to destroy the contents of the room. The voices were gone, but the one coming from behind possibly enraged him even more.

"You're an insufferable, petulant child," he spat. "I won't tolerate behaviour like this on my ship."

He wasn't afraid of him, not like everyone else was. Ren wasn't entirely sure why, though he had ideas. He couldn't ponder it for long before infuriating himself.

Hux felt the familiar tightness in his throat, constricting him. He could do it. Ren knew he could easily kill him.

"Can't... use your words... like a grown up?" Hux managed to choke out the words.

Ren held him for a few moments more, then released him, like he had done every time before. The act had grown old. Hux knew he wouldn't do it, and Ren hated every fiber of his being for it. Hux never had doubts about what they were doing. His loyalty was with the First Order, no matter the cost.

Ren felt that, somehow, Hux could see the light in him. Hux wasn't sensitive to the Force at all, and yet Ren was sure he was aware of his struggle. He knew he was sickened by it. He looked down on him. It made Ren sick to his stomach.

"I'll kill you next time you speak to me like that," Ren said. It sounded pathetic.

"I'm sure," came the reply. "I sincerely hope there won't be a 'next time'."

Ren stormed out, pushing anyone within a small radius of him away with the Force. He got to his room and dropped to his knees in front of the mangled helmet he kept there. He took his own helmet off before it, revealing his weary eyes and lost expression.

"Grandfather," he addressed it. "I could hear them again. I try to block them out but they keep coming back to me. Forgive me, grandfather. I am weak. Help me overcome this. Show me the power of the dark side."

A voice was at the edge of his mind. A voice of a man, one of the unfamiliar ones that tormented him incessantly. He couldn't hear what it said. He never let it get that far.

"Please."

Why wouldn't Darth Vader answer his call? What did he have to do to end this?

He sat in silence for a while, regaining some kind of composure. It did no good to dwell. No matter what he did, he would not repent. He trusted the Supreme Leader with all he had. That was enough.

He replaced the crude imitation of a helmet on his head and left the room, heading for Snoke. He was ready to continue his work.

He was fifteen years old when Ben Solo died. He would do all he could to make sure he never came back.


End file.
